Retentum
by twentyfiveraven
Summary: What would Matt really die for? Explicit, sadistic, graphic, slightly OOC & off canon, POV changes, flashbacks.
1. Chapter 1

**((A/N: Just in case, if you've ever read this on lj, it's the exact same one, nothing's changed.))**

Mello glided, like some blonde wraith, back into the room, glided even with his feet dragging slightly and his arms dangling, until he collapsed gracelessly in the chair adjacent to where Matt was pancaked onto the couch cushions. By the time Mello leaned back in his chair, gazing skyward, flicking his fingers absently for a cigarette, Matt was bolt upright, eyes narrowed and staring.

"What'd the bitch tell you to do?"

Mello didn't answer, just looked at him, ice blue fire under a curtain of cornsilk hair, his hand gesturing frantically. Matt didn't move, just glared, until Mello sighed exasperatedly and reached for the pack and the lighter on the table in front of him.

"I have to kidnap Takada Kiyomi."

Matt waited while he lit up, took a drag, blew a smoke ring and propped one of his long legs on the table in front of him. Once it became apparent Mello wasn't going to elaborate, Matt asked the inevitable.

"How?"

Mello crossed his ankles artfully, but Matt still didn't miss the hitch in his shoulders, the taut line of tension. He was taking great pains to hide it. Matt felt worry creep up on him, breathing rancid air on his neck.

"I'll figure it out, of course."

It was such a Mello type of answer Matt didn't know whether to roll his eyes or smirk knowingly. He had decided on both when caught sight of Mello's eyes again, those indefinable irises, maybe lapis lazuli, maybe sapphire, clear and cold and sharp like the shards of broken icicles, the smithereens of smashed blue diamonds.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" His tone rang with a warning, Matt ignored it.

"What is it."

Mello lolled his head carelessly to face him, looking at him with both eyes now. "The fuck are you talking about?" He was already dismissive.

"Something's wrong."

"You're a paranoid son of a bitch sometimes," Mello said abruptly. He stubbed out his cigarette with a few aggressive twists and ambled out of the room, saying he deeded to be alone to think or some other bullshit like that. Matt watched all this suspiciously, almost stopping Mello as he walked out with the cigarette pack, but thought better of it. This last action, this evasion, was all the assurance he needed.

Mello, careless, stupid, distracted Mello. His phone was still glowing, reflecting blue and LED lights, winking at Matt from the seat. Mello would kill him, quite literally, if he knew what Matt had placed there, meticulously, under the phone's battery one day while Mello was passed out.

He listened to the full recording maybe four times, sitting slumped over in a straight-backed wooden chair, fingers wrenching at his hair until his scalp felt sore and tender.

"Mello," he whispered harshly. "Mello you fucking idiot."

Matt practically slithered into Mello's room, closing the door behind him without a sound. He was no less wraithlike, perhaps, but whereas Mello moved with some kind of medieval, natural poise, Matt just looked like a creep.

Mello was flat on his back, hair fanned out around his face, those strange eyes fixed on the ceiling. He didn't have any lights, most of the light barely filtered in from the high, squat windows, coated in what could've easily been a centuries' worth of putrescence. The back of his hand was resting on his spindly pointed knee, clutching the lighter in gloved fingers. He kept flicking it, on and off, and Matt realized it was set to a certain rhythm, the opening click, the hiss of lighter fluid, hushing flame, and closing metallic snap. He wondered if Mello did it subconsciously, following this rhythm, seamless like everything else he did.

Matt knew enough to wait, not to interrupt Mello in his Pensive State. If he did, he'd probably throw the lighter at him. His aim had improved greatly as of late, and Matt was getting tired of scorch marks on his clothing.

Eventually Mello said, "What."

Not a question, an assertion of territory. He flicked the lighter off for good, and his face was lost for a moment before Matt's eyes adjusted to the gloom.

"You fuck."  
Mello turned toward him a little. Darkness only intensified his stare, twin blowtorch flames glowing faintly.

"You left your phone out for me on purpose."

Suddenly Mello's gaze shifted, and kept shifting, shifting to look everywhere else but at Matt.

"Only one question left to ask now." Matt let a note of abandon creep into his voice, as if he didn't give a flying fuck whether Mello threw away his life or not. It was a tactic to get his attention, a successful tactic, and Matt gave him a lopsided grin when Mello focused those unnatural blue eyes on him.

"Where do I fit in to all this?"

"You don't," Mello said brusquely, opening and closing the issue all at once. "Go away."

Oh no, no, no, no, no. It was _not _going to be that easy.

He stood above Mello, holding a chocolate bar in one hand a liquor bottle in the other, making sure to keep them in Mello's line of sight at all times. Mello might be able to ignore Matt as if he were nothing more than furniture, (a devastating skill in every sense of the word) but Mello wasn't known for giving up his vices. Hell, he had downright sulked for weeks after the burn, until Matt and experience convinced him ruination was a good thing.

"So, what?" He swirled the bottle's contents suggestively. "You get to sacrifice yourself but I don't…"

Mello glared up at him with such ferocity it would have frozen fire, but Matt was used to it, Matt liked it.

"...because your life is worth more than mine, right?"

To be honest Matt had expected a lot more effort on his part to push Mello to the breaking point. But it was at this that he sprang up, screaming, face contorted in a wrathful mask, eyes wide and glowing bright as incandescent bulbs, yellow hair flying around his flawlessly marred face. His hands latched onto his shirt collar, pulling him off his feet with ease, throwing him so hard onto the mattress it squealed in protest. Matt was so stunned he didn't realize at first that Mello was shaking the shit out of him, that what he took for a scream born of pure rage and wordless emotion was actually a coherent language, that he was saying,

"Less! Worth _less, _you shit for brains! How could it be _fucking_ anything else?!"

Matt's eyes widened to the size of saucers behind his goggles, and Mello saw and shook him harder, calling him a "fucking dumbass" who "never realized" always "playing the same stupid fucking games" and wearing the same stupid clothes, making Mello "sick, thinking of throwing your life for _him_, that motherfucker with a god complex, how _dare_ you even _consider_ throwing away your life to catch _him_" and he just kept throttling him, not pausing, not hesitating, until he finally ran out of steam and let him go.

Matt fell back onto the bed, too weak to raise his head, feeling bruises start to blossom where Mello's studded knuckles had collided over and over again with his throat. He coughed weakly a couple times, looking up at Mello. He felt like saying "If I start bleeding out my ears because something important ruptured, you're paying my hospital bills, you fuck" but a wave of dizziness overwhelmed him.

Mello was sitting, curled up on top of him, a gangly mess of sharp joints, a heap of splintered wood and shattered glass. All jagged edges.

"You dumbass." He coughed again, wishing he didn't sound so weak.

Mello bit the corner of his lip, then released it, and Matt saw everything from anxiety to weakness in that one gesture. But he kept talking.

Matt raised himself up on both elbows, putting all the strength and conviction he could into what he was about to say.

"Not for him."

Something underneath Mello's fair skin created shockwaves of immense proportion.

"I wouldn't – not to catch him."

It was true. He didn't care about Kira or justice or winning or anything like that. He only cared about—

"For—"

And then there was force, crushing all around him and inside him, trying so hard to be gentle. Matt couldn't speak anymore. Mello had clenched his fingers on either side of Matt's face, his entire body pressing down him from knees to mouth. It was all a tactic to get Matt to just _shut the fuck up_.

A successful tactic.

Matt didn't much care that Mello had shut him up, not when he did it like this, not when knew the message had come across loud and clear or Mello never would have—

His fingers knew by now their way across Mello's flat stomach, the heel of his palm down his thigh, rough, the fingertips callused from pounding game control buttons too hard, dragging his leather pants down inch by painstaking inch.

"Shut up," Mello muttered against his lips, before Matt licked at them tentatively, both their actions a plea to the other's mercy.

Matt was silent, and Mello gave a twangy groan, clutching at Matt's neck, and he opened his mouth warmly.

* * *

It had taken a while for Matt to get used to this side of Mello, longer than it should have, considering how much Matt had wanted it. But he had always considered it a fantasy, the thought that Mello could be something else other than lean and sharp with barbs and frozen metal glare. He would never have believed Mello could be soft, warm to the touch, limbs bent around him like twisted wire. For a long time, he had thought Mello was just using him, a tool to ease his boredom, to manipulate with different methods other than threats and bullets and more threats.

Then he'd woken up first, for once, vision blurry, and Mello was still pressed against him, almost huddled, chin tucked into the crook between his neck and shoulder, fingers interlaced, so close Matt's breath stirred Mello's sunflower hair, blowing it away from his scar, back then still raw and red and unforgiving.

* * *

Mello clawed his way up Matt's chest, tearing at his shirt, pulling it every way but up over his head, muttering angrily under his breath in what sounded like Gaelic, of all languages. Matt would've burst out laughing if Mello didn't look so fucking gorgeous, or miserable.

* * *

He didn't know how he knew Mello was awake as well, at that moment, but he was.

Matt said nothing, just tightened his grip, before he fell back asleep.

* * *

Mello had forgotten he'd almost crushed Matt's windpipe.

"Fuck," Matt winced, inhaling sharply at the pain. "Damnit, Mello."

He panted slightly into Matt's neck, breath tickling his ear. He traced each throbbing welt with a curious fingertip, then with his bottom lip, until Matt gasped at the sensation, the wavering line between pain and pleasure. Mello bit the corner of his mouth, flexed his hand in between Matt's legs, and Matt felt his lip swell in agony at the same time he felt himself go hard and knew that now the line was gone forever.

* * *

Things were moving slow. Mello was backtracking the path of the Death Note, from his hands, to the second L, to the first L, to Higuchi, and then to Kira, and it was this last leg, of course, that was giving him shit. There were two notebooks, obviously, one from the first Kira and one from the second Kira, one that had been Kira's hands, and one that had been in his own. Kira still possessed a Death Note, along with the Japanese police, but the odds were far greater that the two were the same. Matt had hacked into the police files skillfully. Originally Mello was just going to dog their movements and put the pieces together himself, because he was damn good enough to do it, but as Kira proved himself to be among them, it was impossible now. Well. He'd never been one for following anyway.

Something crawled through his skin, on the wrong side of his face, sending a sudden lash of pain along his cheek. He choked back a cry at the spasm, the long red flare of it, bright and stinging like a lightning bolt. His hands balled into fists, eyes shut tight while the rest of him desperately sought some mild respite—

There was a tight weight on him, not quite pinning him down, but before he could shove it off he felt a coolness, light as a breeze, graze his wound, cool relief like he'd put his head underwater. He smelled something greenish, exotic, something else oily, and underneath the grainy smoke of burning nicotine.

He grabbed Matt's wrist, flinching away, but he held him in place with his other, still-gloved hand. His eyes snapped open, gleaming blue with anger.

"Get off." He would have narrowed his eyes but the burn refused to let him move that half of his face. "Get _off_, I can do it myself."

Matt didn't say a word, just kept holding his forearm immobile. Mello's other arm was free. Matt guessed what he was going to do before his fist even clenched.

"Punch me and I pinch you, hard, and you won't break my grip."

Mello seethed audibly, but stayed still, almost limp. He'd never admit it to Matt, but—well, to put it another way, the burn wasn't hurting _that_ horribly anymore.

"What is this shit anyway?" Mello grumbled, since of course he wasn't enjoying this.

"Aloe and Vaseline, for the burn, and eucalyptus for the sting," he said quietly.

Mello hmph'd, but was silent. Something weird was going on, he noticed. Whenever he looked at Matt, (who was not that far away, not as far away as Mello would like) Matt always looked away first, averting his eyes behind his goggles. He'd read something, a long time ago, that it was a sign of weakness, of inferiority. It made him wonder. What gave him power over Matt? Intelligence, yes, but Matt had gotten over that ages ago. Hmm.

Well whatever edge Mello had over him, once he found out what it was, he'd be sure to use it to his own advantage. Use Matt to whatever purpose he could.

The thought made him smirk, and the dull blade of pain cut him again with a sudden agonizing stroke.

"No evil grins for a while, huh?" Matt said smugly, grinning himself.

"Fuck you," Mello snarled, and shoved him off; he collided ass first with the floor. Mello snorted, almost inhaling the thick coating of tingling goo.

Matt brushed himself off casually, as if Mello had done precisely as predicted. "You look like the Phantom of the Opera," he called after him, ducking out of the room just before Mello winged the open tub of Vaseline at his head.

* * *

Matt opened that weird, sleeveless vest Mello always wore with practiced fingers, fingers used to the ridiculously small buttons for such thick fabric, fingers used to its fastenings and the satisfying way the fabric went slack and then slipped, robe-like, off Mello's smooth shoulders.

Mello never failed to say, "Took you long enough."

He traced his fingers down Matt's bare arm, curling them like cool vines around his hand, brought it up with both hands to lay flat against his collarbone.

Matt watched the flesh bellow out beneath the curve of convex bone as he breathed, the slight contrast of his washed out olive and Mello's rich apricot, and he still marveled at how linear Mello was, muscles small and firm like a teenager's, skin cool and supple like a serpent's.

Mello's hand pumped at him steadily, keeping time with his rhythmic breathing. Matt tensed and lost his breath at every touch, rubbing his hands along the dry landscape of Mello's body, moving down to follow his hands with his mouth. Mello arched for him, sighing, and tried to push Matt's pants off with his feet, so limber that he succeeded. They were stretched alongside each other now, until Matt wound his fingers ever so lightly around Mello's cock, and ran down the underside. Mello turned over onto his back, moaning "fuck" and splaying out his arms helplessly, and it was incredible, he was incredible, all laid out for him like this, just for him.

Matt watched him breathe. He was perfect, tainted, damaged, and perfect, ungodly so.

* * *

They had fucked, dirty, no sheets, no bed, on the _floor_ of all places, all dust and grime and sticky spots where they had spilled shit because what the fuck would they need a mop for? To be fair, they had argued first, about something, Matt didn't know, Matt had forgotten; it had been fucked right out of him. Rut, rutting, rutted, those were the right words here, he was sure, the instinctual, prehistoric transition from fight to fuck, the filthiness of the floor at the base of the wall, the moaning and the grunting and the sweat—animalistic to a tee. Fuck. It had been indescribable, still was.

Matt was basking in post-coital bliss, for once not caring if it was too obvious, never mind his back hurt with every breath. Mello was leaning against the wall next to him, legs crossed, twirling Matt's goggles by the strap around one of his bony fingers, a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

"Shit," Matt breathed. Mello ruffled the other boy's longish, dark red hair, pulling his fingers up through the roots to the ends. Matt swatted his hand away half-heartedly, and sat up, groaning, crouching nose-to-knees against the wall. He didn't need to voice his appreciation, it showed clearly in everything else.

Mello lit him a cigarette, and they smoked together, silent but for the sound of heavy exhales, still bare-assed, ankles overlapping but otherwise not touching.

Matt sighed. That was fucking _good_, so good he didn't even feel shamefaced about how completely juvenile that sounded. "Almost holy," he muttered.

"No."

Matt flicked his eyes towards him.

"I'm not a god." Mello was looking at him out of the side of his eye. "Not anymore than Kira is."

Matt looked at him full on now. Mello was in a haze, something dark and shadowy, something he'd lapsed into more and more often ever since his scar had stopped hurting.

"I never said you were." But it felt like a lie to him, strangely enough. Maybe because when he looked at Mello, all naked and golden with glacial blue eyes, the feeling he got was helpless, and ardent, and passionate. Devotion. And sex was his way of paying homage.

_Shit. _

Mello grunted. "Good," he mumbled, and blew a smoke ring at the ceiling "because I don't want your worship."

_What he meant was, I don't deserve it. _

* * *

Matt could give a really fucking good blowjob. He was pro at it now. He knew all the tricks, all the ways, to get Mello to melt like butter in his hand. Mouth. Whatever. It was like his cheat code. He knew what to do now, with his tongue, teeth, lips, his throat, his mouth, to make Mello seize up, yanking on his hair, eyes rolled and jaw hanging open (drama king).

Mello said it was a little sadistic, wasn't it? All Matt's to control? And Matt just smiled, asking, then isn't it a little masochistic of him to give in every time? And then Mello had to teach him which one of them was really masochistic.

Matt swirled his tongue around the head, feeling instead of hearing Mello's breath become more frenzied. But no. He didn't want Mello to come, not just yet.

He nearly deep throated him though, just for the hell of it, but Mello growled, "Don't even fucking think it, shithead" and Matt obeyed.

* * *

"What are you looking at?"

He was poring over the printouts from the hacked police files yet again. His hands looked like they were covered in rainbow shit—he was working on a highly detailed scatter plot with different color highlighters, currently five feet in length and growing. He was so close to that one missing factor, that one tiny link to finally chain the whole thing together. He could almost taste it, sweet and bitter like dark chocolate, almost—

Matt was staring at him, chin in palm, and it was very distracting. Mello bit off a corner of his chocolate bar with a decisive snap.

"I was wondering…"

Mello, fully interrupted now, his eyes tight blue slits, ground his teeth together and resisted the urge to shoot kid's jaw clean off.

"…if I covered my dick in chocolate—"

"I'd bite your fucking cock off," Mello interjected venomously, "and eat it. Now play your fucking PS3 or PSP or what the shit and leave me the hell alone."

Matt ignored him. "We could go to bed. It's 4 in the morning."

"Like I give a shit. I don't need sleep."

"Like hell you do."

"No, I don't." His voice had progressed from venomous to fatal. "Go away."

Matt shrugged. "I knew I shouldn't have switched your pain meds with caffeine pills." He put his hands up defensively, expecting Mello to throw a highlighter at him and then pounce. When he didn't do either, Matt un-flinched and looked at him curiously. Mello had let one of his precious chocolate bars fall to the floor unheeded. He looked like he was close to an orgasm, or something, and Matt raised an eyebrow, but then he remembered the right word—epiphany.

_Switch_, Mello thought, triumph soaring through his veins. _They switched._

It was the first time Mello realized just how valuable the kid was to him, and the possibilities that unfolded before him were endless and dark as an abyss…

"You alright?"

Mello smiled at him, and Matt held his breath. He must look grotesque now, with _it_ on nearly half of his face, and he felt the tiniest spasm of pain strike where he least expected it.

He looks so beautiful, Matt thought, before shoving it out of his mind. Mello would never accept it.

One step, though, he mourned inwardly,

One step, he warned himself,

_And he would fall. _

* * *

Matt settled on top of him, brushing Mello's hair away from his face tenderly. His thumb zigzagged across his features, following the divide where smooth skin gave way to the newer, ribbed angles of skin, down from his hairline, the side of his nose, the miniature arcs across his cheek. Mello's eyes were half-closed, trying to be seductive, (Matt could've told him he didn't need to try) but Matt could tell he was impatient, and he bit back a mocking smile. He kissed his forehead, the side of his nose, underneath his eye, the jut of his cheekbone.

Mello walked two fingers down Matt's spine, took his time drawing them back up.

Matt trailed small, soft kisses, almost sweet, into his mouth, sweeping his tongue but not grandly, biting his lips but not harshly, until Matt could taste the frustration of being denied what was his on Mello's tongue.

It was too perfect.

Mello walked two fingers down Matt's spine, then dragged them back up.

Matt pulled away, smiling, and could _see_how hard it was for Mello not to roll his eyes. His smile grew wider, his gaze half-lidded, and he nuzzled against Mello's neck—

Mello was about to fucking fall asleep here, fuck this—

Matt bit the juncture of Mello's cheek and his neck, holding the scarred skin between his teeth, so hard he heard his back teeth click.

Mello--

_Mello, careless, stupid, distracted Mello_

Mello almost sat straight up, but Matt's weight was holding him down. He was tensed as a coiled spring, his fingernails carving crescent moons into Matt's back, so shocked he couldn't form words, breathing hard, but not entirely from lust, not this time.

And just when he couldn't take it anymore, when he thought Matt must have broken the skin, he let go.

Matt was grinning widely, too widely, and held Mello closer and soothed where he had bitten, licking bite mark kindly, graciously, until Mello had relaxed. Somewhat relaxed.

He knows Mello's harder than before, Matt can tell, Matt just knows. Hadn't Matt taught him?

_ruination was a good thing_

He kissed his way down Mello's side, gorgeous, incredible, golden, beautiful Mello, soft kisses planted with just a trace of tongue, following the sleek lines of his body. He righted himself on top of Mello, smiling, just smiling, saying nothing, fitting his hands around Mello's hips. He had to suppress a sigh of longing as he held him, and Mello's eyes glittered at him.

He sure was something. Mello blew a spiky lock of hair off of his forehead. What was he waiting for?

_Matt said nothing, just tightened his grip_

Matt traced Mello's lips with a rough fingertip, Mello opened his mouth without hesitation, and Matt dipped two of his fingers inside, drumming a little against his tongue. His other hand wandered around, not even rustling the bedcovers, until he found what he wanted, and he moved them around so they'd be easy to get to later. Mello was sucking on his fingers with mounting enthusiasm, but Matt wasn't fooled. His glass bluebell eyes dared him, challenged him. But Mello would just have to wait. He moved his fingers, subtly, in and out, until Mello lipped his knuckles.

_Matt would have burst out laughing if Mello didn't look so fucking gorgeous._

Mello bit down hard on Matt's fingers, unforgiving. _Payback_. Matt hissed, and Mello released them, watching Matt shake his hand like the pain would fall right out.

Asshole. Matt hadn't even considered—

Mello raised himself up on his elbows, crooning soft, transparent apologies. Matt looked back at him warily. He saw a trace of the old Mello lingering, unscarred, more words than action, whatever action occurred was pure vindictive aggression, no real purpose. Matt understood.

Get a fucking move on.

Matt grimaced inwardly. (Mello had strong teeth.) He'd almost forgotten about that Mello.

_He'd never been one for following anyway_

He pushed Mello back down onto the bed, not gently, who gave a flying fuck about gently, and pushed his two fingers, sticky with spit and throbbing, inside him. Mello gave a groan, teeth set on edge, but his eyes lit up like—

_Finally._ He groaned all throat, no voice, low and loud, and sucked air between his teeth. He grasped fistfuls of the bedspread, staining them with his sweat. Matt's other hand was clamped around his sharp hipbone, fucking hard, digging into the delicate skin. He'd never say so but _shit_ it hurt.

Matt was fixated, looking at Mello's face, while his hand turned the skin opposite ways between his splayed fingers.

_You won't break my grip_

Matt wasn't going to get any harder, and nothing else was going to satisfy him but Mello. He thrust himself into him brutally, grinding down onto him mercilessly, hips against hips and thighs against thighs and Mello was so fucking tight, holy fuck, and Mello gasped and bit his bottom lip hard and didn't let go—

_wavering line between pain and pleasure_

He pushed himself inside, again, deeper, deeper, crushing their bodies together, still thrusting, thrusting with that jerking motion of his hips inside that exquisite hot tightness that was Mello, and kept moving, moving, turning his hips until Mello unwound all at once before him like something that had been caged was let loose and was ricocheting around against his bones, and the noise he made, a long vocal moan, a decrescendo from some octave neither of them knew Mello even _had_, like the pure brazen ringing of a bell.

Matt seized Mello's cock impulsively, releasing his hip, and Mello twisted, losing his breath, stomach heaving erratically as he struggled to retrieve it—

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck_,_ _Mello's nails were piercing holes in the sheets,_ fucking, fucking fuck

_Rut, rutting, rutted, those were the right words here_

Matt had him, he _had _him, he could've come from that fact alone, the look on Mello's face, he let go of his prick, hands on either side of his head now, and lowered himself so he was nearly even against Mello, buried into his flushed skin, glistening with perspiration, and Mello's erection was caught in between, rubbing against his thighs and his stomach, smooth skin and sweat.

"Shit," Mello said, drawing out the vowel long and high, in what in a lesser being would've been a whine.

Matt began to rock against him, slow, into the same spot, and Mello's eyes snapped open, electric blue and furious.

_the possibilities that unfolded before him_

Matt could take a hint.

He reached up without warning, snatching Mello's hair in his hands, so hard he could see the pale scalp—

Mello choked on his own breath—

He thrust into him, hard, merciless, unforgiving, over and over, again and again, skin and skin and sweat combining and scraping Mello's collarbone with his teeth to see the flesh there swarm over red, and he was reminded of marble statues, haughty and noble, crumbling sweetly with devastation, and he watched Mello's skin sway and redden and thought of art come to life

_sex was his way of paying homage_

And how he could worship Mello, if he ever let him, how he could make him realize how perfect he was, arching up against Matt, bucking his hips wildly, the staccato thump of clashing hipbones and his heart was thudding, he realized, to his matched beat with Mello, thrust for thrust, picking up the pace without being told to, Mello had to be close because Matt was close, even now Matt wondered—

Mello angled his hips forward viciously, tearing out of Matt's hold, pulling him down by the neck onto his mouth, hot and sweet and tingling, pressed together from forehead to feet, and Mello came with a sound like bliss and Matt came holding Mello and it was almost, almost perfect but—

_which one of them was really masochistic_

Matt trailed kisses down Mello's body, his earlobe, his neck, his chest, his stomach, still slick and sticky with come, (Matt licked it off) down the inside of his thighs, and Mello was saying every swearword in the dictionary and some that were definitely not, because what could Matt want _now_?

He still had the lighter and the pack of smokes where he'd put them before.

Mello watched him take one out and light it, take a drag and puff out the smoke.

"Light me one?" he asked, the after-orgasm buzz starting to steal over so he was almost polite.

Matt didn't answer. He sat on Mello's knees. Mello grunted.

"Oh, I think you can wait." He held the cigarette motionless in his hand. "You could probably have another fuck, even, before you need one."

He settled between Mello's legs. His fingers traced up the inside of one thigh, _Mello's skin quivered_, down the other. His tongue cleaned the come off of one thigh, _Mello shuddered_, and then the other. His fingers, softly, gently, from the base of his cock to the head, _Mello's breath shook_, and then his mouth—

_Matt could give a really fucking good blowjob_

Mello moaned, muttering Oh fine, but Matt knew he'd wanted it, and stroked the shaft delicately with the wide warmth of his tongue while his teeth just grazed the underside, Mello's cock swelled, and Mello let out a faint breath.

In one fell swoop he plunged the burning cigarette into Mello's hip, at the same exact moment Matt took him as deep as Mello could possibly go.

He came and came and came, over and over, so far into Matt he didn't even taste his come, just swallowed reflexively, and Mello was screaming, splitting Matt's ears and curdling Matt's blood, and coming and coming, the smell of his burning flesh—

_now the line was gone forever_

And he was screaming his name, his _real_ name, not you fuck or shithead or asshole, but "Matt! Matt!" screaming incessantly, as if it had erupted, pulsating, from his chest.

He quieted suddenly, and Matt sat back up to survey his handiwork. There it was, a miniature crater, a perfect dark circle

_raw and red and unforgiving_

Matt's lips pulled back, more a snarl than a smile, face still shining with sweat, come on his lips

_He must look grotesque_

"Matt," Mello murmured. His skin was flinching involuntarily, muscles twitching in odd places. Matt leaned his head against his chest, listening carefully to his heartbeat. Mello draped a loose arm around him, burrowing his smooth cheek against the top of Matt's head, their contrasting hair cascading together. "Matt," he drawled, testing out the feel of the word on his tongue.

Matt snorted.

_Took you long enough_

"Mello."

_Beautiful._


	2. Epilogue

Epilogue

_Mello will wake him up, tousling his hair, saying, "Get up, lazy bastard," and Matt will pretend to stay asleep until Mello calls him "Matt", which he will eventually, rolling his eyes and shoving Matt out of bed with unnecessary vigor._

_It will be noon, no, morning. The day will be all gray and watercolor with winter sun. No clouds though._

_They'll shower, silently, because Mello has to come up with a plan to kidnap a celebrity connected directly with Kira, not to mention she's surrounded by what amounts to an entourage of mercenaries._

_Mello will spend his days, nights too, following Takada's schedule with excruciating attention to detail, listening to the stiff conversations between her and that Light Yagami, occasionally getting Matt to help by hacking into NHN for floor plans or into some international criminal database for profiles on each of her bodyguards, drivers, etc._

_He'll talk to that SPK bitch everyday, changing the hours every time, vanishing out of Matt's sight and out of Matt's earshot. _

_Matt will get so fucking tired of having to scramble the outgoing signal so no one will be able to listen in, not on hard wire or on satellite, and he'll have to keep hacking into the cell phone company towers so no one will be to triangulate their signal and find out where they are. Still monitoring the news of course, always watching the news, no matter how much bullshit everyone spewed now that Kira had the world in his pocket._

_Honestly, it's no problem for him, he's doing this for Mello, but they will be so close to the end of—_

_--something, and the fact that Matt won't be able to put his finger on it precisely will frustrate him to no end._

_Mello will tell him the night before, that tomorrow will be the day he takes her, that tomorrow everything will finally start. Matt won't say anything, he won't want a fight, but Mello is no idealist, he will know what Matt's avoiding and will confront him head on. They will argue until Mello physically can't argue anymore, he will be too exhausted, he will not have slept properly since the burn._

The second burn, not the first. Matt's burn.

_Mello won't be able to get to his room without leaning against the wall, since of course he will refuse Matt's help. He'll be too exhausted kick him out of bed though, and Matt will sleep next to him, stroking that strange spider web of flesh that stretches across his face, because in his sleep is the only time Mello doesn't flinch away._

_Mello won't be sleepy when he wakes up, but he will be nothing compared to Matt. Matt will bounce off the fucking walls. Mello will swear and call him names and point his gun at him and if Matt makes him waste a bullet, for fuck's sake, stop pissing him off, and Matt will stop. _

_They will need to burn the evidence, all of it. _

_They will douse the whole hideout in booze, soaking the place with liquor, wine splashing the walls and beer in puddles on the floor, and on their least trip they will set fires as they go. _

_Then they will watch it burn, standing side by side. _

_Matt will light his cigarette with a Molotov cocktail before he throws it accurately through one of windows in what used to be Mello's bedroom._

Why are you doing this? _He will ask Mello. _Allying yourself with your enemies. That's the same mistake L made.

_He will keep smoking, flames reflected in his goggles._

Look what happened to him.

_Mello will say nothing, either because he doesn't have an answer or because the one he does have won't satisfy Matt at all. _

_Matt will look at him, flames making eerie shadows along the grooved skin of his scar even in the middle of the day. He will look otherworldly. And Matt will wonder how Mello can be so fucking oblivious. _

_Eventually Mello will look back at him. _

_Mello, will tell him, slowly, so Matt can memorize it, exactly what he has to do, and precisely when he has to do it. _

_Mello will tell him what he needs to do, and he knows that every word he says to Matt is retentum, a mercy killing._

_Matt knows it, too._

* * *

**A/N:** Whew, that took a while. My first time writing DN fic, it probably shows.

The title, "retentum", comes from the method used exclusively in France during medieval times, when witches would be burned at the stake or convicts broken on the Catherine wheel, the executioner would sometimes strangle the victims if the torment lasted too long. Mercy killing, basically.

And when Mello's thinking about something he read in which weaker beings avert their eyes , that's from Rudyard Kipling's _The Jungle Book_. It's certainly dark enough so Mello would read it, and there's fire. -shrug-

Thanks for reading, please comment!


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